


Easy Waltz

by phylocalist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phylocalist/pseuds/phylocalist
Summary: There is a legend that says if you ever find yourself in front of a certain church in a certain street of Paris at midnight, you will be transported back in time. Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t know this legend.(Or: A Midnight in Paris AU in which Viktor is a writer in a slump who travels to Paris in search of inspiration and finds so much more.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Viktuuri Week 2017, day two. Prompt AU: Historical/Time Travel.
> 
> at first i had no idea what to write for today and the next minute i had three new aus. i decided on writing this, a midnight in paris au, and it kind of really got out of hand. like, 5k words out of hand. still, i hope you enjoy it. and if you wanna talk with me about these wonderful gays, please hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/lustfuIcat).
> 
> unbeta'd and basically unproofread. it's so late, just take it, please.

Viktor Nikiforov is in a slump.

If anyone asks, he’ll say he’s just clearing his mind up to make space for all the wonderful new ideas that are gonna appear when he decides to start writing his new books. He’s not in a _slump_ , please, he’s taking a break, which is a totally different thing. Writer’s block is a stranger to Viktor Nikiforov’s amazing hyperactive imagination.

Except he knows he _is_ in a slump and this is the first time he’s had to deal with writer’s block and he’s out of sorts as to what to do. His editor, Lilia, had half a mind to offhandedly suggest him a trip.

“You shouldn’t worry,” she had said, “you’re a rising star and there’s no need for you to come out with a book so soon after your last one.” And her eyes had turned just a bit soft and had a glimmer of affection in them when she continued, “You deserve a break.”

And she was right, he did deserve one. The last few years of his life had been spent writing and writing and writing, putting out one book after another in a flurry of success and topping the charts. The problem was that Viktor did not want a break. He knew himself best through his words and the stories he crafted and developed through them. Without them? Who was Viktor Nikiforov?

So he decided he was gonna take Lilia’s advice and make a trip, which is how he now finds himself in the middle of Paris, riding a cab to his hotel. He watches the city go by in a blur, the people walking by like background characters in a novel.

Maybe this time Viktor should focus on figuring out his own story before he starts writing someone else’s.

He spends his first day in the city sightseeing, taking photos and selfies to update his social media, and smiles at all comments of Viktor Nikiforov in the city of love. He smirks to himself as he mentally challenges the so-called “City of Love” to surprise him with something that will make him truly believe the title. He has had no time to fall in love with anything other than books for most of his life and he doubts there will ever be a change.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet, Paris is determined to prove him wrong.

*

There is a legend that says if you ever find yourself in front of a certain church in a certain street of Paris at midnight, you will be transported back in time. Viktor doesn’t know this legend. That’s why, when he collapses in front of the steps of a church somewhere deep in the complicated, tight-curved streets of Paris after a night spent drinking far too much far too quickly, he pays it no mind.

He will also later chalk it up to his drunk, fogged up brain the fact that, when an old-looking car had stopped in front of him and invited him to get on so they could get to a party, he agreed immediately. To be fair, the car _looked_ expensive and the man inside didn’t look like an axe murderer and Viktor doubted rich Parisians went around in their old expensive cars kidnapping drunk strangers off the street.

That is how he found himself inside a stranger’s car being driven to a stranger’s party in a strange city. Even as drunk as he was, Viktor had half a mind to realize this was probably the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe he could utilize it for his next book.

“You’re not from around here, right?” The man next to him spoke and Viktor looked back at him, realizing he had taken off his hat and exposed a balding head. In the dim light he could barely make out the man’s features, but he realized the balding made him look much older than he was, probably the reason why he kept his hat on. “My name is Yakov Feltsman. I hope you can have fun at the party, I’m sure you’ll meet all kinds of people.”

Viktor nodded, unsure of what to reply, then belatedly realized he should probably introduce himself.

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov and I’m a writer, so I’m really excited to meet all the different kinds of people Paris has to offer.”

“A writer, huh?” Yakov smirked, a little sarcastic glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna fit right in, then.”

Viktor hummed in response, examining the profile of Yakov with the help of the passing streetlights. The alcohol had begun clearing away a little and it allowed him to realize that Yakov’s outfit wasn’t exactly up-to-date fashion, seemed more like vintage formal clothing. It was true that everyone had their own fashion sense and Yakov wouldn’t be the first person Viktor knew who preferred vintage clothing, but for some reason Viktor couldn’t put his finger on, Yakov just didn’t strike him as someone who would go out of their way just to look pompous and refined with their century-old clothing.

The car slowly coming to a halt took Viktor out of his head. The driver, a tall man with long legs and a pretty impressive pompadour, opened Yakov’s door, then walked around the car to open Viktor’s. He bowed to the both of them and climbed back into the car, driving away. Viktor watched him go until he disappeared from sight, then turned to where Yakov was standing, waiting for him.

In front of him stood a huge, ornate mansion with warm light emanating from all of its many windows. The architecture was old but in good taste and Viktor took a moment to appreciate it. Whoever owned this house had both the money and the good taste to probably lead the luxurious kind of life to throw parties every fortnight for as many guests as there were people in Paris, which explained a lot as to why Viktor was currently in this place.

Yakov cleared his throat in a clear sign of his patience growing thin and Viktor hurried to his side with an apologetic smile. Yakov didn’t return it. They started walking up the steps to the front of the mansion, where two butlers opened up the twin heavy doors that adorned the entrance. As the doors opened, the feeling that this wasn’t the Paris he had gotten to know the day before grew within him and he tried to shake it off a shake of his head because, why wouldn’t it be?

Except when his eyes finally adjusted to the blinding lights of the chandeliers that adorned the roof of the mansion’s ballroom he realized with a shiver that this _really_ wasn’t the Paris he knew.

His first thought was that he had somehow gotten himself into the set of a remake of The Great Gatsby. The second was that all this was was a costume party with a theme of the 1920’s and he just hadn’t gotten the memo. The third, and least possible, was that he had somehow gotten himself transported back to the 1920’s.

In the middle of the ballroom there were at least a dozen couples dancing, both men and women adorned in the most luxurious fashion, short loose-fitting dresses sparkling under the lights and handsome smiles blinding the crowd. The sound of music filled the large room from a stage on the right where musicians with huge smiles on their faces played to their heart’s content. The rest of the party-goers were either grabbing small treats off the appetizers table or chatting away sitting on tables. By the atmosphere in the room, everyone knew everyone or they really didn’t care and treated each other as old friends even if they had just met.

Yakov turns around when he realizes Viktor isn’t following him into the room and had instead halted in front of the closed doors. He clears his throat again, clearly annoyed this time, and looks back at Viktor with a frown.

“Son.”

Viktor hurries to Yakov’s side, praying to God he isn’t getting into the old man’s bad side.

“So, uh,” he starts with hesitation, earning himself a raised eyebrow from Yakov. “I know this may be a weird question to ask, but what year is it?”

The frown that deepens Yakov’s brow tells him it was a _really_ weird question to ask. He gulps.

“Why, it’s 1921. The year of you writers, it seems.” Yakov tugs his hat a bit snug around his head and mumbles under his breath, “You lot seem to appear from nowhere all the time. Can’t seem get rid of you either.”

So either Yakov was a really good actor that took his work so seriously he could tell lies like these with a straight face and unwavering voice as long as he was in character or he wasn’t lying. Viktor really didn’t wanna believe the latter could even be considered an option, but something in his gut tells him there’s no reason to believe Yakov is lying.

Except just an hour earlier he had been in Paris of 2015. And now he supposedly is in Paris of 1921. Alright.

“Come on, let’s go meet Jean-Jacques. He’s the host of this party.”

Viktor nods and trails behind Yakov. Even if this is just some weird alcohol-induced dream, he figures he might as well try to enjoy it while it lasts. Who knows, this might even be the founding idea for his next best-selling book.

They come to a stop in front of a small but extravagant dais, which hosts an equally extravagant throne. There is a man with black hair and a playful smile sitting comfortably on the throne, a glass of champagne in one hand and the other rhythmically tapping against one of the throne’s arms. Viktor can very easily imagine him in a cape and crown and the man, presumably Jean-Jacques, exudes such an air that makes Viktor think that’s what he wants everyone to imagine him as. All the money spilled on the mansion and the decorations and the party suddenly make a lot more sense if they’re coming from this person.

“Jean-Jacques, this is Viktor Nikiforov, a new friend. Viktor, this is Jean-Jacques, the host of this party.” Yakov makes the introductions and Viktor takes the opportunity to bow down to Jean-Jacques as if he were a king. He notices Yakov letting out a huff of exasperation, but when he comes back up Jean-Jacques’ face is lit like the sun.

“Oh, I like him, Yakov. I like him!” Jean-Jacques smiles at him and Viktor smiles back. “Please serve yourself to whatever you desire and dance to your heart’s content! Enjoy the night and do come again.” Jean-Jacques nods to himself, seemingly content with his little impromptu speech, then turns to a beautiful lady with short dark hair standing next to him. Viktor figures it’s their cue to leave.

Yakov next to him curtly nods towards the dancefloor. “You heard him. Dance to your heart’s content.”

With a short tug to his hat, he turns around and leaves Viktor all alone to fend for himself. It’s not like he’s not a social person; quite the contrary, he can be quite the social butterfly under certain circumstances, but he would’ve appreciated the company until he met someone else who could keep him company instead of keep pestering the old man.

He starts walking towards the dancefloor, snatches a glass of champagne from one of the serving boys, and sips it contemplatively as he looks at the couples dancing in the middle of the dancefloor. The one that catches his eye is a couple of young ladies, both dressed in similar short sequinned dresses and bejeweled headbands; one of them has pale skin and fiery short red hair, the other has tan skin and long brown hair. They look like complete opposites of each other, except they’re smiling and looking at each other as if they complement themselves. They’re smiling and laughing with ease, their steps talking of a dance practiced by years of companionship, and Viktor finds himself smiling. He might’ve not found love yet, but he’s glad that other people in the world seem to find it with ease.

His eyes stray from the couple and instead land on the pompous appetizer table. He takes the few steps needed to reach it and grabs a couple of the little canapés scattered artistically across the table. They’re delicious and Viktor sends his blessings to whoever came up with and prepared these small treats. As he’s debating whether it’d be prudent or not to grab a couple more off the table, a man who looks about his age comes to stand next to him and smiles at Viktor.

“The chef is really good, right?” The stranger lifts up the canapé as if he’s toasting with Viktor before he puts it into his mouth. He chews for a couple of moments and then smiles at Viktor. “Pichit is the best around these parts, that’s why Jean-Jacques always books him for his parties. Only the best of the best for the King.”

He puts on an air of grandiosity as he says the last sentence and Viktor isn’t sure if he’s allowed to laugh until the stranger winks at him and Viktor lets himself explode into laughter. They share a little moment where they both try to calm down their breathing and then smile at each other. The stranger extends a hand before himself.

“Christophe Giacometti. I haven’t seen you around here before, have I? I would’ve definitely remembered a pretty face like yours.” The smile turns into a seductive smirk and Viktor almost lets himself be swayed by it.

“Viktor Nikiforov.” He extends his own hand and shakes Christophe’s. “And no, you’re right, this is the first time I’ve come to a party like this.”

“I knew it. Wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to talk to a beauty like you.” Christophe is very unashamedly flirting, but Viktor can’t seem to find it in him to mind. It almost makes him feel welcomed as he lets out a little chuckle at Christophe’s comment. “So you don’t know anyone around here, right?”

“No-op,” Viktor says airily, letting his lips pop at the sound of the last syllable. He takes another sip off his glass of champagne, finally draining it.

“You don’t have to look anymore.” Christophe tugs at one of his suit’s lapels and smiles confidentially at Viktor, like there’s a secret between them. “I’ll introduce you to the best people in town.”

Apparently, the best people in town weren’t in the party. Viktor gets dragged outside and into another car, a little less luxurious than Yakov’s own but still very beautiful. They drive for a couple of minutes, Christophe animatedly telling Viktor about the city and where he could take him to sightsee in the morning, and Viktor nods along with a smile of his own. They reach a tall brick building, an apartment complex from the looks of it, and start going up the stairs. After a few floors, they seem to finally reach their destination and Christophe knocks on one of the doors, not even waiting for an answer before pushing the door open with a big smile on his face.

“Nobody let you in, Chris,” comes a much younger voice than the ones Viktor has heard throughout the night. He peers inside with curiosity, finding the owner of the voice a short young teenager with blonde hair framing his face, standing before an easel with a canvas on it and a paintbrush in one hand.

A quick swoop of the room lets him know there are only other three people in the room, apart from the newest additions of Christophe and himself. Christophe strolls to one of the other men in the room, sitting on a loveseat reading a book, and promptly plops himself on the man’s lap. Viktor arches both eyebrows.

“He’s being mean to me, Ben.” Christophe is pouting very exaggeratedly and Viktor suppresses a laugh. He drapes his arms around the man’s neck, who closed his book in favor of letting Christophe into his lap, and nuzzles his nose into the man’s hair.

“Yuri’s right, though. You didn’t wait for an answer.” The man, presumably Ben, snakes a hand around Christophe’s waist and gives him a smile that lets on he’s not actually mad at all, even though he’s reprimanding him.

Christophe continues pouting for a few more seconds until his eyes land on Viktor again and he springs up from Ben’s lap, smiling again.

“Oh yeah! I brought a pretty thing!” Christophe says, as if he completely forgot about Viktor’s existence for a couple of minutes. He probably did. “This is Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor, this is everyone you need to meet in Paris.”

“Helpful.” Viktor lets out a chuckle, which turns all of the eyes in the room unto him.

“Huh. Can’t believe I have to see your face again so soon.” A gravely voice comes from the far end of the room, where Viktor’s surprised to find Yakov sitting.

“Yakov!” Viktor smiles, pleased to know at least one more person in the room.

“You know this old man?” The one in front of the easel, who is very easily the most rude person Viktor’s known so far and he’s only heard him say two sentences, points at him with the brush, arching one eyebrow in the direction of Yakov.

Yakov nods, pulling out a cigarette and putting it in between his lips. “He’s a writer.” He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag. “This is Yuri Plisetsky, my protégé and an up and coming painter.”

Well, that explains the easel, but not the rudeness. Viktor hears so-called Yuri huff out an annoyed sigh and mumble a _whatever_ under his breath before he turns back to the painting, probably tuning all of them out. After Viktor examines Yuri for a couple more seconds, he realizes the teenager is very young, wouldn’t put him past sixteen years of age. With a silent laugh, he brushes off the rudeness shown earlier. Teenagers are teenagers whatever the year, it seems.

That leaves only one other person in the room he has yet to know the name of, and when Viktor turns to look at the young man tending to a potted plant, he realizes why he hadn’t noticed him before. There’s this aura around him, like he’s trying his best to blend into the background and not be noticed by anyone, but the moment you lay eyes on him there is no way to stop looking. There’s nothing exactly _special_ about him, not like Viktor’s silver hair or Christophe’s flirty smirk, but there’s definitely _something_ that draws you in. Viktor’s not sure if it’s the gentleness with which he’s touching each leaf of the plant or the softness in his eyes or the way his brown hair curls around his ears or -- all of them.

Christophe seems to notice his staring, even as the stranger does not, because he looks at Viktor with a playful, mischievous smirk.

“That’s Yuuri Katsuki over there. He’s mostly an errand boy, but he likes to dabble in writing just like you, Mr. Nikiforov.” There’s a knowing glint in Christophe’s eyes and Viktor can’t decide if he made the best or the worst decision of his life by befriending him.

Yuuri Katsuki, suddenly aware that he’s being looked at and talked about, turns towards Christophe, then towards Viktor in a hurry of movement that makes Viktor think his head must be spinning with all the movement. It’s not very discernible with the way the lights are casting shadows on his face, but Viktor swears there’s a smear of red on the top of his cheeks. He thinks it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen and wonders why it’s always at these moments that inspiration strikes him that he has nowhere to write it down.

“Um -- sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Yuuri stutters, and the sentence turns into a question at the end, probably not his intention.

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov. A pleasure!” He takes long strides towards Yuuri and extends a hand in front of him, a big smile on his face. Yuuri is probably the person he wants to get to know the most out of everyone he’s met today and he’s only known his name for a couple of seconds now.

Yuuri, though, looks like a deer caught in headlights. He looks from Viktor’s outstretched hand to his face for a few moments, until he seems to remember he’s supposed to shake it. The red in his cheeks turns a few shades darker and Viktor wants to write sonnets.

In the background, Christophe explodes into laughter.

*

Viktor guesses he somehow made it back to his hotel room before sunrise. He can’t remember much after Christophe started shoving glass after glass of wine in his hand, but he _definitely_ remembers the beautiful boy with the gentle hands and soft eyes in Yakov and Yuri’s studio-apartment.

He also vaguely remembers asking how they distinguished between the two Yuris, cutting Yuri Plisetsky in the middle of a logic response with the great idea of nicknaming the teenager Yurio. He’s sure Yurio is very mad at him, but Chris had laughed and clapped at Viktor’s suggestion, fervently approving of it and Yakov had even shown a smirk. You win some, you lose some.

Allowing himself some leisure, he starts getting ready to go out as he promised Christophe he’d meet him in the afternoon so he could take Viktor sightseeing. He gets as far as out the Hotel doors until he realizes he’s no longer in 1921 and is, instead, back in 2015. The modern-looking cars cramm the road and the people bike around in clothes very obviously up-to-date in fashion.

Viktor drags a hand through his hair, feeling his heart break just a little. But before he loses all hope, he thinks he might as well try to recreate the moment Yakov’s car picked him up. The problem is he can’t, for the life of him, remember where in the whole of Paris did Yakov’s car pick him up.

It takes him three cups of coffee and a full breakfast before he can come up with an idea.

Throughout all of the famous spots of Paris he had visited on his first day, he remembers there were leaflets on different, less well-known tourist spots. He had picked one off each of the places he’d visited, thinking that he’d read them sometime later so he’d have more places to know. It had slipped to the back of his mind until that moment, when he ran all the way up to his bedroom and looked through the leaflets in a hurry.

His eyes land on a beautiful cathedral that rings a bell on his memory and he quickly reads the description, which talks about an old parisian legend about being transported back in time. With a yell of victory and shiny eyes, Viktor can’t believe his luck. He writes down the address and tries to wind his heart down, realizing with a pout that he actually has to wait until midnight to meet with Yakov’s car again, according to the legend.

Viktor decides on taking a stroll through the city instead of sitting on his hands waiting. Still, he isn’t the most patient person on the planet, so he ends up getting ready to go out earlier than he had planned. He dresses up, careful to dress in pretty atemporal clothes this time as to not stick out like a sore thumb again, and then lets himself plop down onto the bed with a sigh.

There’s really no explanation as to why this is happening to Viktor or why he can’t seem to mind the fact that he’s being transported back in time. The only thing he wants is to look at those brown doe eyes again, and again, and again.

Maybe Paris really is the city of love.

*

Just like the midnight before, Yakov’s car rolls around and opens up a door for him. Viktor stands up from the cathedral steps, a blinding smile on his lips.

“Figured I’d find you here,” grumbles Yakov.

“Yeah,” Viktor says, and he surprises even himself with the easiness the words come to his lips. “I liked you guys. Christophe was right when he said you were the greatest people in town.”

Yakov’s expression next to him softens just a little. “He’s a bit exaggerated at times, but he isn’t wrong on that one.”

This time, they come to a halt before the tall brick building Viktor now knows contains Yakov and Yuri’s studio-apartment. They go up the stairs together, and Viktor follows Yakov inside without any of the uneasiness he’d felt just the day before.

Inside, there is a scene much like the one he had encountered on his first visit, except this time it was Christophe reading a book on the loveseat and Ben on the couch, having a cup of tea. Yuri was once again back in front of the easel, this time with a much larger canvas in front of him, and huffed when he saw Viktor enter behind Yakov.

“God, it’s you again. I was hoping you had drowned on Sienna last night so I didn’t have to see your face one more time.”

Viktor almost felt touched by the fact that Yuri had this time deigned him worthy of more than just a three word sentence. The venomous remark catches Christophe’s attention, which got him to look up from his book and then all up in Viktor’s space. He pouts at Viktor in much the same fashion he had done to Ben yesterday and Viktor almost expects him to nuzzle his hair too -- he doesn't.

“Viktor! I was waiting for you all afternoon and you stood me up!” Christophe is undoubtedly adorable as he looks up to Viktor through his long, long eyelashes and carries on pouting. Viktor lets out a soft chuckle and pats him on the head. Christophe leans into the touch with a smile.

“I’m sorry, work’s got me really busy and I can only come out at night.” Viktor quickly makes up a lie to explain the reason he only meets them past midnight.

“You artists and your whims.” Christophe lets out a sigh and turns around, sitting back down on the couch with crossed arms. Viktor shoots him an apologetic smile.

Ben extends a hand to reach out for Christophe’s knee, patting it reassuringly.

“Chris, stop bothering Viktor,” he says, a light smile on his lips.

“I just wanted to play with him,” Christophe reiterates, annoyed like a child being kept from playing with his new toy -- which is probably how he sees Viktor, but puts a hand over Ben’s on his knee.

“I know,” Ben replies and looks up at Christophe. The moment their eyes meet, a unique kind of warmth blossoms on Christophe’s smile and Viktor decides he definitely isn’t going to get in between whatever Christophe and Ben have, even if Christophe insists. It had been tempting for a few moments, but he’d made a decision now.

Darting a quick look around the room and not finding Yuuri anywhere, Viktor starts bouncing on the balls of his feet, the pure image of innocence.

“So… is Yuuri around?” He asks with an innocent smile, then quickly adds, “not that I don’t enjoy your company, I love being around all of you -- yes, even you, Yurio.”

The teenager snarls at him and Viktor shoots him a smile. Christophe perks up at the question and smils that knowing smile of his full of complicity. He seems to be about to reply to Viktor’s question when a knock in the door interrupts him, turning his words into a chuckle. Viktor realizes the only thing that could mean and turns around to open the door with a huge grin on his face.

“Yuuri!” He launches himself at the young man and hears the sound of something crinkling between them. He pays it no mind as he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s neck and smiles into his hair.

“Ah -- Um. I.” Yuuri stutters, clearly at a loss for words as to why he suddenly has an armful of Viktor. Viktor, who can clearly see the tips of his ears turn red and feels like biting them, but that's probably going a step or three too far. “Mr. Nikiforov?”

Yuuri’s voice wavers, clearly beginning to feel uncomfortable without knowing what is proper for him to do in this situation, and Viktor finally lets go of him. He holds Yuuri at arm’s length and looks at him with a frown.

“Please call me Viktor, Yuuri.”

“Okay, but, um. Do you think you could let me through to the room, Viktor?” Yuuri’s voice sounds unsure around Viktor’s name, like he still isn’t sure if he's allowed to use it, but Viktor smiles. They would have time to work on it.

“Sure, of course!” Viktor nods, and steps aside to let Yuuri in, closing the door behind him.

Yuuri walks straight up to Yakov’s desk, putting some slightly crinkled papers on top of it -- so _that_ was what had crinkled. Yakov shoots him a glare, Viktor returns an unapologetic smile. Viktor walks over to the couch Ben was sitting on and sits down next to him as Yuuri and Yakov discuss something, probably about the papers Yuuri had just brought. As soon as they stop talking and Yuuri is seemingly turning to leave, putting his newspaper boy cap back on (which Viktor thinks looks _adorable_ on him), Christophe claps his hands once and attracts everyone’s attention.

“So, as I was about to say before Yuuri arrived and Viktor assaulted him,” Christophe shoots Viktor a _look_ out of the corner of his eye, then winks at him. Viktor has zero idea what is exactly going on. “I wasn’t able to take Viktor sightseeing earlier today, so I was thinking, Yuuri…”

Either the doe caught in headlights is a common look on Yuuri or too many surprises had happened on the past two days for it to look so familiar on his face. Christophe almost looks sorry for trapping Yuuri like this.

“Would you mind taking Viktor sightseeing?” Christophe finishes, a smirk adorning his face, and Viktor thinks he's _definitely_ grateful he had befriended Christophe; the man is a mad genius.

“But --” Yuuri visibly swallows and wrings his hands. “I’m not a local either, shouldn’t it be better for someone from Paris to take him sightseeing?” He finishes the question with a note of hope, thinking he might’ve just pulled himself out of Christophe’s plan.

“But that’s exactly why you should take him!” Christophe smiles wide. “We locals are bored to death of all the tourist spots, but you still aren’t because you haven’t spent that much time here. You’re the perfect candidate.”

Yuuri looks like he wants to bolt out of the apartment as soon as possible.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Viktor chimes in. He thought saying _I would love to spend more than just a few minutes with you so I’d_ really _love it if you’d take me sightseeing instead of Christophe_ was maybe just a touch too much.

“See?” Christophe points to Viktor with a smile. “Even Viktor agrees”

“Ah --” Yuuri starts, but an impatient sound interrupted him.

“Do whatever the fuck you want but, oh my God, just _get out of here_ , please!” Yuri grunts, dragging one of his hands over his face in mortification. Viktor decides he wouldn’t tell him he’d just smeared paint all over his face.

“Language, Yuri,” Yakov scolds without even looking up from the papers he's reading.

“Argh! I can’t get anything done like this!” Yuri yells, storming off to somewhere else in the apartment, probably to his bedroom. Viktor can’t contain his laughter this time.

“Anyway…” Christophe trails off, taking the attention of the room back after the painter’s little number. “Yuuri?”

Viktor looks back at Yuuri with hopeful eyes. Yuuri darts his eyes between Viktor and Christophe a few times before he seems to give up and exhales a long breath.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll help.” He sounds almost defeated, but Viktor can’t contain his happiness. He jumps up from the couch suddenly and walks in long strides to Yuuri’s side, almost vibrating with excitement. Yuuri seems to think something over for a moment until he finally breaks into a tiny smile. “Let’s go.”

*

They spend most of the night visiting popular tourist spots, most of which Viktor has already visited, but is more than happy to revisit with Yuuri by his side, telling stories of how they had become so popular or the way they had been built. But Yuuri also takes him to little hidden gems, like his favorite coffee shop or the bookstore with the best books and lowest prices. They find themselves walking through Paris’ streets late into the night, until all of the shops around them have closed and barely a soul walks by. The only light illuminating the night comes from the lamp posts and the bars that are still open.

The last stop they make is the Pont Alexandre III, a beautiful bridge spanning over the glittering Sienna, and which was, Yuuri told him, built in name of and for the Tsar Alexandre III of Russia. Viktor smiles and excitedly urges Yuuri to tell him more, as this is a part of Paris that has to do with his own country’s history.

Yuuri lets out a soft laugh like petals falling with the soft autumn wind and Viktor feels his stomach drop and drop until everything feels much too heavy and too light at the same time.

After Yuuri finishes telling him all he knows about the bridge, they both fall into comfortable silence as they lean against the bridge and look down at the Sienna reflecting the night sky on its surface. There’s a soft cadence of music coming from one of the bars close to the bridge. It’s the first time Viktor feels like he could actually be part of a book.

He hesitates to break the bubble around them, but there’s something that’s been egging Viktor since they began the tour.

“You said you weren’t a local but…” Viktor’s voice is soft, careful not to break the spell that has fallen around them completely. “How come you know so much about Paris?”

Yuuri turns his head slightly so he can look at Viktor with the softest smile he’s ever seen a person wear. It tugs at something inside of him and he swallows.

“I’ve always loved Paris. I’m originally from Japan and not the most well-off person, so I never thought I could visit in my wildest dreams. And then one day my friend Pichit was offered a really good position at a Parisian restaurant and he asked me if I wanted to come with him. It was really hard to make the final decision to just -- leave town and explore the world.” He lets out a soft laugh, like he still can’t quite believe he did just that. Viktor feels pride well up within him and doesn’t know what to do with it. “But I did. And so we’ve been here for a little over a month and I’ve gotten to learn more about this city than I ever dreamed possible. And I’ve met more great people that I ever thought existed in the world.”

There’s a pause, but Viktor doesn’t wanna interrupt Yuuri, so he waits. And is rewarded when Yuuri looks back at the river under the bridge with forlorn eyes.

“It’s not always easy, being away from home and from my family and all I ever knew. It’s a completely different country and culture and people.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh that squeezes at Viktor’s heart. There’s a glimmer at the corners of his eyes and with an almighty urge to reach out and wipe them away, Viktor realizes they’re tears. “It’s actually _really_ hard most of the time. But I don’t regret it. It’s the best damned thing that’s happened to me in all of my 22 years of life.”

With a sigh, Yuuri pushes off the bridge and the spell is broken. Viktor doesn’t know what to do with himself, very aware that he was just handed a very precious piece of Yuuri and is holding it in his hands like the most beautiful hand-crafted glass heart ever. For once in his life, Viktor Nikiforov is at a loss for words.

“Sorry I just dumped all of that on you when we’ve only known each for, like, a day,” Yuri says, smiles a sincere and apologetic smile and Viktor wants to scream that _no_ , he is thankful and awed and stunned.

_You would never be a burden._

In the background, the music from the bar shifts from an animated piece to a slow waltz and, as ferociously as he’s looking for something to say or do to show his gratitude to Yuuri, Viktor extends a hand before him.

“Would you gift me this dance?” Viktor asks, because that’s what Yuuri does. He gifts and gifts and doesn’t ask for anything in return and Viktor thinks he could spend a lifetime looking for someone braver than Yuuri and he wouldn’t find anyone.

Yuuri looks bewildered for a moment, and then his eyes soften and he smiles.

“I don’t know how to dance.” He wraps his arms around himself, a defensive mechanism Viktor knows very well, but he’s had a glimpse of the Yuuri underneath all those layers of expertly crafted defenses and he’s never again gonna settle for less.

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows how to waltz.” Viktor motions with his outstretched hand once in an inviting gesture, but lets his voice communicate that, if Yuuri so wants, he can decline and they don’t have to dance.

But there’s suddenly a playful spark in Yuuri’s eyes and smile as he hesitantly takes Viktor’s hand in his own and Viktor flies.

“I guess you’re right.”

They waltz around the length of the bridge, the city of Paris seemingly asleep for once, except for them and the music floating around them. There’s airy laughter and risky dance steps that have Yuuri bent over Viktor’s knee, who then reiterates with lifting Viktor up in the air. They surprise each other and themselves with the easiness that the dance comes to them, like this is a performance they’ve practiced their whole lives and only now they’re here with each other, finally makes sense and all the steps click in place.

As the song fades out in the background and the Sienna under them reflects the night sky perfectly in its still surface, Viktor and Yuuri hold each other chest to chest with the end of the dance. They’re both panting, their hearts racing, but the smiles on their faces talk nothing of tiredness. They’re like a newly lit fire, simmering embers waiting for the spark that’ll set the fire alight.

Viktor tucks a strand of hair behind Yuuri’s ear and moves his hand to the back of Yuuri’s head, softly carding his fingers through the short hair. Yuuri stares and doesn’t move and expects. And Viktor delivers.

The press of lips is hesitant at first, a new sensation being born in the moment, but then suddenly the spark lights the fire and Yuuri’s hands are pulling Viktor in and for the first time in his life Viktor gives and gives and gives.

*

It takes quite a few attempts for Viktor to convince himself last night wasn’t a dream. He ultimately convinces himself by the fact that he got to his hotel at the crack of dawn and hasn’t slept since which means he couldn’t have dreamed. It still quite impossible to believe.

There’s the ghost of the press of Yuuri’s lips on his still haunting his memory and he finds himself absentmindedly touching the tips of his fingers to his lips like a teenager after his first kiss. He laughs at himself and then laughs again because he’s just so _happy_.

He wishes he didn’t have to wait until goddamn midnight to meet with Yuuri again, but he’ll wait a lifetime if it means kissing those lips once more -- and maybe three or five or ten times more after that.

Viktor distracts himself with starting a new draft on his laptop. He’s still not sure where this story is going, which part is the beginning and which part is the end, but he’s happy to sit back and enjoy the ride. So he orders room service and has his breakfast in the hotel room and writes like his life depends on it. Because Yuuri Katsuki has given him not only new experiences but also words that keep buzzing around in his head and are begging to be written down.

Viktor smiles fondly because Yuuri always gives and it’s made Viktor want to give back.

The hours slip through his fingers like sand and suddenly the light stops streaming in through his window and he has to hurry for dinner so he isn’t late to Yakov’s car arrival at midnight. He gets there a couple minutes before midnight, and has to stop himself from anxiously tapping his foot against the cathedral steps. He lets out a surprised laugh at himself, the ever-late Viktor who’s somehow now early for the first time in his life.

He forces himself to relax, checking his wristwatch every couple of minutes or so. Once the clock strikes twelve, he feels himself start to smile, looking down both ends of street, waiting for those now familiar old-fashioned headlights.

Viktor waits. And waits.

When the cathedral at his back starts ringing its bell to signal the arrival of one o’clock in the morning, Viktor starts to panic.

When the bell rings again, to mark the two hours past midnight, the tears start spilling from his eyes.

There is _no way_ this is happening, right? Granted, Viktor didn’t think the time travel visits would last forever, but he never thought they’d be gone so soon and so suddenly. Maybe Yakov’s car broke down somewhere and had to be taken to the repair shop. Right. He’ll surely be back by next midnight.

Except Yakov doesn’t come back. Ever.

*

Viktor balls his hand into a fist inside his jeans' pocket when he remembers the plane tickets resting on his desk back at the hotel room.

It had taken a couple of days, but he had finally convinced himself to stop going over to the cathedral at night and wait for Yakov’s car. It was obvious his little escapade had ended just as quickly as it had begun and there was literally nothing he could do about it. His inspiration from the day before the trips stopped happening had vanished with Yakov’s car and he had been unable to get a single word more on that draft, had to call Lilia to tell her choked up with tears he wouldn’t let fall about his return to Russia.

He was a writer, he could work from anywhere in the world as long as he had a connection to the internet or post service, but he felt like he couldn’t stand the beautiful sight of the Sienna under the Pont Alexandre once more without breaking down.

As is his last day on Paris, Viktor spends it revisiting the hidden spots he remembers Yuuri telling him about. There’s a sting in his chest whenever he remembers a detail about the reason why Yuuri loved these places, but he revels in it. If his heart still remembers that means it was real and not just some weird dream he conjured up. Even with his writer’s brain he doesn’t think he could ever come up with someone as amazing as Yuuri.

He leaves the library for last, because he knows it was Yuuri’s favorite place to spend his time in, as he knew the owner of the library and they let him read the books without having to pay for them. Viktor walks through the rows of bookshelves and lets his fingers brush against the books’ spines, idly remembering another very different sensation that once existed against his lips.

A laugh like flower petals falling with the soft autumn wind startles him out of his musings and Viktor’s heart races, for the first time in days. He walks with unsteady legs to the origin of the sound and he catches the tail end of someone slipping through the door. He almost feels himself fall before a voice speaks up.

“Can I help you with something?”

Viktor’s head spins so fast he wonders how he doesn’t get whiplash. But then there’s a pair brown doe eyes looking back at him behind a pair of glasses, worry written all over the stranger’s face and furrowed brow, and Viktor feels himself go weightless.

“Yeah.” Viktor is nodding fervently. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

The stranger lets out a startled laugh and then the faintest shade of color tints the high of his cheeks. The hair is a little bit longer and there’s no newspaper boy cap but Viktor is sure, he could never be wrong about this, about his --

“Is that a new pickup line?” The stranger tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and it reminds Viktor of the Sienna reflecting the late night sky under the Pont Alexandre and a soft waltz playing in the background. The ghost haunting his lips makes a comeback.

“It is if you want it to be.” Viktor swallows and stretches out a hand before him over the main desk. “I’m Viktor.”

The stranger looks between Viktor’s outstretched hand and his face in a gesture so familiar it almost brings tears to Viktor’s eyes. Then the stranger takes Viktor’s hand in his and shakes it with a shy smile on his lips.

“I’m Yuuri.”

And all these steps Viktor had to take to finally be where he stands today finally make sense and click into place. Rain starts pouring outside the library but the only thing Viktor can hear is a slow, easy waltz being played around the both of them.


End file.
